


Star of the Morning

by Claire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-21
Updated: 2009-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been millennia since you've been in human skin...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star of the Morning

You hold your (his) hand up to the light, watching as the shadows dance across your skin. It's been millennia since you've been in human skin and you'd forgotten how it feels, skin and flesh and nerves all begging to be touched.

Your fingers are broad and strong (he's killed with these hands), and there's still a hint of red under your nails. You can wish the blood away with a thought, but it grounds you, a remembrance of those who failed you.

They should never have been allowed to leave (should never have wanted to leave). They should be here with you now, instead of running. A Hunter and his angel (or is it the other way around), wanting so desperately to stop the world from burning, the two of them shining against the darkness and never knowing the fire exists because of them.

Your clothes are gone with a passing thought as you trail a hand over your stomach, thoughts of your brother in your head. Thoughts of Castiel teaching you how to shoot, how to best dispose of a banshee. Thoughts of Dean's feathers touching yours, of dancing with him across the skies of Araboth. (A voice inside you rages, but it's barely a whisper against your mind.)

The hair on your skin becomes coarser as you move downwards, fingertips leaving trails of warmth behind. You wrap your fingers around your cock, feeling its weight as you start to stroke, as it starts to harden under your touch.

Tightening your grip, you move your hand until your cock is heavy against your palm, solid in its thickness. You don't know what your body likes (what _he_ likes), so you start slowly, carefully. But it's too soft, too gentle, not enough.

(Castiel's hand on your arm as you cry over Jess. Dean's hand on your arm as you rage against Michael.)

It takes a few minutes for you to find the right speed, the right cadence. Takes a few tries before hand and body fall into the right rhythm and you're _there_ (and there are no whispers in your ear directing you).

Heat blossoms inside you, warm and sharp, and your skin feels too tight, like it's not yours (never yours, not really, except in all the ways that it _is_ ).

(Castiel's gaze never leaving yours as you renounce your father and leave your home, your family. Dean's gaze never leaving yours as you renounce your father and are cast out of your home, your family.)

Your body tightens as your cock pulses, your essence shooting over your fingers and landing on your stomach, thick and warm. And you keep stroking, soft aftershocks running through you until even your own touch is too much and you open your fingers, your cock dropping heavy and sated against your thigh.

Your fingers trail through the viscous fluid cooling on your skin, painting sigils that mean nothing and everything onto your flesh.

(Castiel murmuring _I want you_ , but not to you. Dean murmuring _I need you_ , never to you.)

They may have each other now, but you're coming for them. They'll run until they have nowhere else to run to, and that's when you'll be there.

You will stand before the world, your brother (both of them) at your feet, and with a cleansing wave of fire you will herald in the dawn.


End file.
